Hemchandra was now settled in the garden house. And Mrinalini? Where was Mrinalini—exiled, tormented, helpless?

In the evening sky, the crimson clouds gradually shed their golden hue and took on a dusky shade. Under the night’s veil, bestowed by the goddess of darkness, the vast bosom of the Ganges became indistinct. Like rows of lamps lit by attendants in an assembly hall, or like the blossoms in a garden at dawn, the stars began to bloom in the sky. On the nearly dark river, the night breeze began to blow with a slightly harsher force. From this, as in a maiden’s heart when touched by her beloved, waves began to rise on the breast of the river. On the shore, the foam clusters formed by the impact of the waves seemed to weave garlands of white flowers. The murmur of the waves rose, like the clamor of many voices. The boatmen brought their boats close to the bank and began to make arrangements for resting through the night. Among them, a small dinghy separated itself from the others and came to rest at the mouth of a creek. The boatmen began to prepare their meal.

In the small boat were only two passengers. Both were women. It need not be told to the reader—these were Mrinalini and Girijaya.

Girijaya addressed Mrinalini, saying, “The day has passed.”

Mrinalini made no reply.

Girijaya spoke again, “Tomorrow will pass as well—and the day after too—” “Will it not pass—why should it not pass?”

Yet Mrinalini gave no answer; she only heaved a long sigh.

Girijaya said, “Mistress! What is this? What use is there in brooding day and night? If our coming to Nabadwip has not turned out well, then come, let us return even now.”

This time Mrinalini replied. She said, “Where shall we go?”

Gi. Let us go to Hrishikesh’s house.

Mr. Rather would I drown myself in these waters of the Ganges.

Gi. Then come, let us go to Mathura.

Mr. I have already told you, there is no place for me there. Like a fallen woman, I left my father’s house in the dead of night—how can I show my face there again?

Gi. But you did not come of your own will, nor with any evil intent. What harm is there in returning?

Mr. Who will believe that? In the house where I was cherished as an idol, how can I now remain, despised?

In the darkness, Girijaya could not see that tear after tear was falling from Mrinalini’s eyes. Girijaya said, “Then where will you go?”

Mr. Wherever I am going now.

Gi. That is a journey of happiness. Then why are you so restless? You are going to see the one you love to behold—what greater joy can there be than this?

Mr. In Nabadwip, I shall not meet Hemchandra.

Gi. Why? Is he not there?

Mr. He is there. But you know, he has taken a vow not to see me for a year. Shall I be the one to break that vow? Girijaya remained silent. Mrinalini spoke again, “And what shall I even say when I stand before him? Shall I say that I have come here in anger against Hrishikesh, or shall I say that Hrishikesh has cast me away, calling me unchaste?”

After a moment’s silence, Girijaya said, “Then will you not meet Hemchandra in Nadiya?”

Mrinalini: No.

Girijaya: Then why are you going?

Mrinalini: He will not see me. But I shall see him. It is only to see him that I go.

Girijaya could not contain her laughter. She said, “Then let me sing—

At your feet I lay, O Shyam, my precious life. I shall not waste my youth, my lord, in vain. This jewel is beyond price, you must pay its worth, Day and night, my lord, you must grant me your vision.”

Mistress, you may sustain your life by merely beholding him. I have become your maidservant, but that will not fill my stomach; how shall I live, what shall I eat?”

Mrinalini: I know a few crafts. I can string garlands, I can paint, I can embroider flowers on cloth. You will sell my handiwork in the market.

Girijaya: And I will go from house to house singing. Shall I sing of “Mrinal the wretched”?

Mrinalini cast a glance at Girijaya, half-smiling, half-reproachful.

Girijaya said, “If you look at me so, I shall indeed sing.” So saying, she sang:

“Who has set my cherished boat adrift upon the waves? Who is there to steer, who will go with me?” Mrinalini said, “If you are so afraid, then why did you come alone?”

Girijaya replied, “How was I to know before?” And then she began to sing,

“I set my boat afloat in the morning light, Thinking it a playful game upon the water, The breeze would blow sweetly, I’d drift along in delight. But now—the sky rumbles with thunder, the wild wind blows, Why did I leave the shore behind, trembling in fear of death?”

Mrinalini said, “Then why don’t you return to the shore?”

Girijaya began to sing again,

“In my mind, I think to return, guiding my boat gently, gently, But on the shore, thorny trees stand entwined with serpents.”

Mrinalini said, “Then why not drown and die?”

Girijaya replied, “There is no harm in dying, but—” and again she sang,

“To the one I would make my helmsman, to whom I would offer my boat adorned, He never set foot upon the deck of my vessel.”

Mrinalini said, “Girijaya, what loveless song is this?”

Gi. Why?

Mr. If it were me, I would sink the boat.

Gi. Willingly?

Mr. Willingly.

Gi. Then you must have seen a jewel beneath the water.